Riley sat on an overturned milk crate behind a defunct cannery, chewing a stale bagel. They think I hurt her, she thought, her stomach twisting into a cold knot. They think I caused the crash, or robbed her. It was the only language the streets understood: Retribution.
The drizzle began again. Riley pulled her hood tighter, deciding she needed to hop a freight train heading south.
The crunch of gravel stopped her dead.
She listened. Heavy, deliberate boots. A shadow fell over her, blocking the dim yellow street lamp. Riley slowly raised her head to see a mountain of a man. A thick, gray-shot beard covered his face, and his muscle-corded arms were wrapped in faded ink. Over his hoodie, the winged death head stared right at her.
Riley calculated the distance to the fence. Ten feet.
"Don't," the man said. His deep, gravelly voice was not a threat; it was a statement of fact. He stepped sideways, blocking her path effortlessly.
"I didn’t take anything!" Riley blurted, words tumbling in raw panic. "I just got the bike off her. That’s all. I swear to God."
The giant reached into his pocket. Riley flinched, expecting a gun. Instead, he pulled out a black burner phone and hit a single button.
"Yeah," he said, eyes never leaving Riley. "Warehouse district. Behind the old cannery. Got her." He hung up.
"Who are you?" Riley demanded, her voice cracking. "Name’s Wade," he said, crossing his arms. "You just sit tight, kid." "I’m not sitting anywhere—" "Kid, if I wanted to hurt you, you’d be hurt. Just sit."
The sheer gravity of his calm terrified her into obedience. Five excruciating minutes passed as the drizzle turned into a downpour.
Then came the synchronized thunder.
Headlights cut through the alley's darkness as a dozen massive gleaming machines rolled in, their exhausts popping and growling. They parked in a semicircle, boxing Riley in completely. The engines cut off. Dangerous men dismounted, their red-and-white patches forming a solid wall of intimidation.
From the center of the pack, a man stepped forward.
He was younger than Wade, maybe in his early thirties, but he carried himself with an aura that commanded the immediate silence of the men around him. He had Roxanne's storm-gray eyes. On his left breast, a patch read PRESIDENT.